


The Colors of Him

by MadamsKK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Color Imagery, Fluff, Frick tagging non-PWP is hard, M/M, Oneshot, Tattoo Artist Castiel, The Colors Mean Something, drunk!Dean, tattoo artist au, vague plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 00:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11635479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamsKK/pseuds/MadamsKK
Summary: After a night of drunken escapades, Dean wakes up in a strangers apartment....with no evidence of having had sex?? What's going on here??





	The Colors of Him

**Author's Note:**

> I'll explain more about this alternate universe at the bottom, thanks for reading!

Dean woke, stretched out over soft cotton, but oddly cold. It wasn't that is was unusual for him to be cold, not at all. Bringing people back to the hotel room with Sammy there just didn't work for him. But something in the back of his head said this was different, that he wasn't always cold. This was a recent cold.

Wait, when did hotels smell so...clean?

Green eyes blinked open, then continued blinking to adjust to their surroundings. Unfamiliar surroundings. The walls were pewter grey, sunlight allowed in through gauzy white curtains to wash over white sheets and carpet. No pictures on the walls. There was a nightstand with an old digital clock that read 6:47 AM in red. Dean rolled to sit up, his head foggy as the New York day outside. He didn't want to push it by thinking too hard on what happened last night.

On his feet, he exited into a hallway. To the left was a bathroom, the right had a breeze blowing from it. He decided to go left first. His reflection caught him by surprise; no wounds or buises to speak of. Not even a hicky. There was the familiar birthmark on his shoulder, but other than a vague tightness between his ears, he was fine.

He backtracked and followed the chilly air through a pale doorway to a pale kitchenette, (Is every thing in this place bleached or something) and a splash of black pops in the corner of his periphery. A beautiful man leaning on the small balcony. Black mussy hair over a pale neck. Black wings scrawled off of pale shoulders and curled around his biceps. The color was so rich, it contrasted so much with the white-washed apartment, that Dean though he must be imagining him.

  He stared. Couldn't help it, really. This man, mug in his hand (Of-fucking-course the mug is white), the only stark color in front of a drizzly grey city. Horns and sirens floated up from what seemed a world away as he watched. Dean jumped when the man shifted, forgetting he was real. He took a sip from whatever the hell was in that mug (Probably frickin milk, damn this white), then turned to Dean.

Oh. Dean did not expect that.

In a world of white, a man of cream with touches of pure black, over a background of tired grey. But when he turned, the brightest blue broke the monochrome scheme, and Dean felt like he had never seen color in all his days. He remembered to breathe when pink lips stretched into an early-morning smile, and Dean ducked his head in shame for looking dumb.

"Good morning, Dean." Gravel-deep voice, beautiful to match a beautiful man. Dean can barely respond.

"Uh, mornin'."

He chuckled, oh damn Dean is in deep, and tilted his head. "You don't remember, do you." He took a few steps toward Dean.

"I uhm, I not really. I don't remember anything after the bar." He fought the blush that threatened, but this...this model in front of him was getting closer.

A warm hand with chilly fingers touched his shoulder, his birthmark, and things came back a little as his eyes fluttered.

("How about a tattoo mister blue-eyes?"

A deep chuckle

"Anything in mind?")

("Hmm how 'bout you and I go get some privacy angel, your hands been wanderin' all over my skin but not in the best places, whaddaya say."

A bitter smile.

"Angel; haven't heard that in a long long time."

"How long could it be? You ain't that old."

"Older than you would think.")

("Are you saying no, Cas?"

"Im saying nothing"

Dean rubbed his hand over a warm chest.

"Say /yes/.")

("Dean, wait."

"What, second thoughts sweetie? 'm hurt."

"You're drunk, aren't  you."

Dean giggled, trying to get Cas to do the thing with his hips again. He decided there was too much denim between them. "And?"

Disappointed blue eyes, and a soft sigh. "Dean, we can't. ")

Dean blinked a few times, then groaned and rubbed the crinkled between green eyes. "I propositioned you. You're a tattoo artist and I felt you up. Oh god what tattoo did I get."

Cas put his other hand on his other shoulder, "No, it's fine, I wasn't exactly...as discouraging as I should have been. You were too distracted to pick a design so you don't have any embarrassing surprises, don't worry. You hide your drunkenness well."

"Yeah, comes from years of pratice." He smiled cheekily at Cas (what on earth is that short for).

"You had to stick your tongue in my mouth for me to realize."

Now Dean blushed outright. "Yeah, uh, sorry about all that."

Cas's hands squeezed a bit, face taking on a comforting expression. "Don't be. Really."

Dean looked at him, deeply into his eyes until he thought he would sink in. He leaned forward, too dizzy to stop, but Cas was leaning forward too and their lips met in the softest kiss. Dean brought his hands up and traced his obliques, wondering what the fuck he was doing. This man is a stranger from a tiny tattoo parlor in New York, he should be concerned for his safety. But no, blue eyes threatened to take all of his fear away, and the worst part was that Dean wasn't so sure he minded.

Cas took his hand and walked over to the balcony, dropped it at the edge of the carpet to take the last few steps and lean on the railing again. Dean couldn't help himself, he stepped forward and pressed again the back of the man in front of him. Dean's calloused thumbs soothed the long bottom feathers against his Angel's back, and Cas couldn't remember a time he had been more content.

"Why wings?" Dean broke the silence.

Cas wanted to tell him. More than he'd ever wanted to tell any human what he was, what he is. The fact that the tattoo is a reminder, is a tangible proof, is something humans can see in place of something they can't. And it hurt him, the effort it took to lie to the man he saved, but Dean just wasn't ready for the secret yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I wrote this forever ago and finally published it!! Yay!!  
> In this alternate universe, Dean and Sam aren't hunters. However, something happened to kill Dean, and Cas drug him out of hell, like usual, but while Cas pieced his soul together, they fell in love. After coming back, Dean doesn't remember Cas at all. Cas can't return to heaven because they consider him an outcast for sacrificing his wings for a human (silly rulebreaker), so Cas eventually found a job as a tattoo artist.


End file.
